Bound
by evizyt
Summary: A stolen kiss. A gesture of supplication. An ancient wizarding custom revived. An apology of sorts. A chance for - for what? Redemption? Hope? "You, Draco Malfoy? Isn't that a bit rich, even for a Slytherin? Oh yes, Malfoy, I know all your crimes against humanity, and don't you think for one instance that you have been forgiven." Hermione/Draco, EWE
1. Chapter 1

_**Bound**_

000

Draco Malfoy couldn't help himself. Like a common muggle, he stopped to watch the scene unfolding in the Ministry hallway that fateful Monday morning. Malfoys never ambled, dawdled, or gawped. They strolled or strode with purpose and perhaps a smidgeon of drama, shoulders back, gaze steady. But she had brushed by him so rudely in the corridor and then immediately bumped into someone else, and papers had gone tumbling everywhere. She had begun to pick up the papers – her own, and those of the other witch – and this was at the point when he had paused to watch.

Hermione Granger had finally done something about that damned hair, teasing or smoothing it back into a very adequate French plait, which hung professionally down her back. It had draped over the side of her neck as she bent down to pick up the papers. Her face, young and soft-cheeked for such a high-ranking employee, was clear and smoothed over with concentration. He saw the precise moment that she picked up the Daily Prophet, which incidentally was not the property of Hermione Granger at all, as it had been dropped by the other woman. Ruddy streaks of heat shot up that cool, pale neck, and Granger shot up out of her crouch, words exploding from her mouth.

"Of all the lily-livered – that kneazel-brained, flobberworm _scum_ of the earth," she hissed, eyes blazing into the distance. "Bloody bollocks of Godric Gryffindor, may a poltergeist follow him to Merlin's bleeding grave on the battlefield of – I'll hex him to oblivion and then reincarnate him so I can torture his eternal soul. That toe-rag of a blasted—"

Draco stared at her. He'd never _heard_ a witch use language like that before. It simply wasn't done. She had a mouth like a common fishmonger. Like a mudblood. He didn't even know some of the obscenities she mouthed. So he watched her, as the red flush mounted to purple, swelling into her face like a septic infection, and a single curl popped loose from her braid, obscuring one of her eyes.

Granger had taken the article from the other witch, who was watching in utter astonishment, and had begun barreling down the long hallway of the ministry in the direction of the elevators, hissing the whole way. Her indiscriminate glare took in everyone she saw, but she was apparently so consumed with rage she didn't even notice Draco, as her look passed over him with none of the particular fury she seemed to reserve for a Malfoy.

Those eyes: eyes the golden-brown consistency of maple syrup, framed by gauzy spun caterpillar-silk lashes, deep with knowledge and the self-satisfaction of universal comprehension. He hates them. He knows them. He cannot stand them. He cannot look away.

He heard one last line as the elevator doors closed around her form, another curl springing free. She slammed her hand, newspaper and all, into a button, almost shouting, " _thrice-damned Voldemort's son_ ," before they shut. He had to bite off a choke at the last one, and several other people had now stopped stare at the empty bay where Hermione's elevator had just been. One simply did not say Voldemort's name, even now. Draco remained for a moment longer, his head buzzing. He felt rather like he had just witnessed some sort of spectacular natural disaster bowl through the countryside. The status of her blood not withstanding, Hermione Granger certainly was a spectacle.

Remembering himself, he strode off in the direction of the fountain of magical creatures. He was here on business, after all, and _Malfoys_ did not make spectacles of themselves.

Somewhere inside of him, somewhere very, very deep, buried and repressed for all those years – somewhere he would never acknowledge, a feeling he would never admit to – somewhere inside him, he felt a small twinge of pity for whomever was about to suffer Hermione's wrath.

0000

Ron's secretary tried to bar her entry to his office, and before she even knew what she had done, Hermione threw the idiot man in a Full Body-Bind and blasted the door open with a nonverbal spell fueled by pure rage. She had one brief moment to contemplate how awfully, ironically _feminist_ of Ron to have a male secretary, before her eyes focused on the man before her.

He sat at his desk, face colorless with shock as he stared at the smoking frame which, one second ago, had been the nutmeg-colored counterpart to his lacquered door.

"You _coward_ ," Hermione spat at him. The paper in her hands burst into flame. She tried to take a deep breath, to regain control, but the anger surged through her in a torrent, and a folder on Ron's desk started to smoke ominously.

Ron hastily stood up to face her, looking torn between anger and fear, and glancing nervously at the smoking folder. Hermione wondered idly what she must look like. Her cheeks held a deep heat, and her hair, almost free of her braid now, seemed to crackle around her face like a living thing.

"Hermione, I didn't strictly do anything," he began, and she cut him off.

"My entire legislation was predicated on your support," she shouted, gesticulating with the smoldering article in her hand. "And then I find that the bill hasn't passed, because you've been _fraternizing_ with reporters and _hinting_ that it's a rubbish piece and that you don't support it, and then," she heaved a breath, "and _then_ I see that when they ask you to clarify, you say you have no comment. NO COMMENT," she shouted, and the words flayed across her skin like acid, booming through the stagnant air. The folder on his desk began to burn in earnest, sending off toxic, plastic fumes. Hermione wondered if she was going to set him on fire next.

"How _dare_ you, Ron Weasley? How dare you? How dare you lie _to my face_ ," she growled, "and endanger my work while doing so?"

He stared at her, and Hermione stared back, unblinking, her dark eyes glittering as her hand entered her robes.

Withdrawing her wand, Hermione levelled it at him. "Unless you give me a straight answer, I will transfigure you into a rat and feed you to Crookshanks." Her voice was perfectly calm. Rational. She meant it to her very core. This was _the last straw._

Ron didn't respond. He was staring at her like she had grown a second head, or just announced she was engaged to Malfoy. Now that was an odd metaphor, Hermione thought. Why had that popped into her head? Shaking off the thought, Hermione waved her wand threateningly at Ron and was satisfied when he jumped a little. "You know I could. I'm the only one in our class clever enough to become an animagus, and it's _so-o_ much easier to transform someone else. I could transfigure you and you'd be stuck as a rat, Ron, wouldn't you, because you never did figure out how to be an animagus. Isn't that right?"

"Listen, Hermione," he began, his tone placating, calming, just like in school. So smarmy. Crazy witches – right? Can you believe it Harry? What a nutter. She tuned out his words. She had seen Draco Malfoy in the corridor, maybe that was why. He'd looked very interested in the papers on the floor; he'd been looking at them while she muttered over the newspaper. Hermione shook herself, returning to Ron's speech in time to catch the bitter end.

"And then, you know, Hermione, it just happens sometimes. I didn't even know this house elf bill was so important to you. I thought you'd moved past the whole spew thing, you know…"

And that was when she hexed him.

0000

Later in the evening, his business at the Ministry concluded, Draco saw Blaise strolling in a purposeful manner, allowing that ever-so-slight billow of his cloak when he took a sharp turn. It was something Draco and the other boys had caught each other practicing in the dormitory mirrors from time to time. An unspoken Slytherin code – one of the many they shared – not to mention it. But a smile nearly pricked his lips, all the same. Surely when Draco did it, his twitch of the fabric didn't look _quite_ so gauche. There was just something a little too practiced, a little too _studied_ about Zabini's manner. Perhaps that was an apt description of Zabini in general. Draco's theory was that it came from his mother.

"Zabini," he called as he drew closer, and the other man turned. If the years following the war had been reasonably fair to Draco, they had seemed to spare Blaise entirely. His young face was flushed from walking, and his dark eyes snapped within his finely carved features, thick eyebrows lending expression and character to the angularity of his cheekbones.

Blaise's lips curved in a mocking half-smile, and he nodded. "Malfoy," he said, "what ails you?"

"So now I need to be sick to be at the Ministry?"

Blaise smirked again. "That's certainly the impression you gave me, the last time I asked."

They walked together in silence for a moment, then the curious incident from this morning swelled up inside Draco, and he blurted out: "Anything strange in the news today? I watched Hermione Granger have kittens in the atrium this morning."

A huffed cough that may very well have been a hastily-muffled laugh emanated from the other man, and Draco eyed him in outright surprise. Blaise choked again, then finally seemed to regain control. Draco watched him coolly, curiosity beginning to toy with the edges of his disciplined willpower.

"Funny you should mention it, really," Blaise said. "As it almost concerns you."

"Merlin save you, should I go buy a damn prophet or will you spit it out?" Draco growled.

"My my," Blaise drawled. "Seems the mudblood isn't the only one having kittens today. What's got your dress robes in a twist, Drakey? Astoria holding out on you again?"

Draco felt his cheeks light up as he avoided the other's gaze. "Never mind then. I'll find a newsstand."

"Well it's all about house-elves, really," Blaise said as Draco made to turn. "Freeing them, giving them rights and what-not. We lost our elves ages ago, so I haven't been following it that closely, but really, Malfoy, I'm surprised at you. Never thought Draco Malfoy would stoop so low as to be ill-informed."

"Everyone know the Prophet is rubbish half the time," he snapped. "I don't make a habit of regularly reading rubbish."

"Can't say I agree with you," Blaise all but purred. "Can't say I agree at all, in fact." He paused expectantly.

"Oh really?" Draco said in a dry monotone, unwilling to play along. "And why is that?"

" It's had new leadership for the past year, which I suppose you'd know if you were…better informed. Granger's handprints are all over it, actually, which makes it doubly funny, really, that article today…"

Draco sighed, and then took the bait. "Alright. So maybe I'll rethink a subscription. Now tell me what the article today was before I light you on fire like Granger's probably doing right now to whatever poor sod made her take the Dark Lord's name in vain."

Blaise did look surprised at that tidbit, but handled it smoothly. "Anyways, as I was saying before you interrupted me, Granger had something to do with the management overhaul at _The Prophet_. You know how it was right after the war – it was true rubbish, so I guess one of her little projects was to finally corral it into being a proper source of news. Fat load of good it does, in the end, but about a year ago the director changed and suddenly they started reporting on court cases and the laws the Wizengamot's been considering and instances of blood prejudice and counting days free of prejudice against muggleborns, that sort of actually real tripe that people care about."

Draco sucked in a breath through his teeth. Trying to hurry Blaise at this point would only prolong the telling.

Eyes twinkling, Blaise went on. "She's bulled quite a few anti-prejudice laws through the ministry, and even managed to curtail an ill-timed marriage law the minister suggested, something about preventing squibs from marrying wizards. Her most recent equality crusade has been house elves, and she seemed positioned for a vote from the Wizengamot on freedom and wages for elves, with a universal ban on punishment. The real clincher was when the Department for Magical Games and Sports threw their weight behind her and said that they wouldn't use them for cleanup after the World Cup anymore. But _today_ ," Blaise said, "there was a big spread on it. Seems Ron the Weasel has gone and lived up to his name."

Draco blinked. He certainly hadn't been expecting that.

"Oh yes," Blaise nodded, seeing his expression. "Quite a nasty shock. Seems he got a bit too drunk and starting running his mouth off about elves. And then when asked to confirm the department's position, he was noncommittal. The bill was meant to be voted on today, and now there's almost no chance it'll pass. He practically ridiculed it."

Before he knew what he was doing, or who it was for, Draco winced in sympathy. For Granger's bill or Weasel's fate, he could not have said. Staring determinedly ahead, he clamped his jaw shut and walked toward the fireplaces with Blaise. The dark haired man appeared not to notice Draco's breach of the old Slytherin values, and only a crinkle at the corners of his eyes might belie that assumption. As they shook hands and headed to separate grates, Draco realized that the only lines on Blaise's face were from smiling.

The floo took Draco back to his home, though to call it a flat would have been to stretch the truth. It was a five story town-house under an Unplottable spell, close to Diagon Alley and with enough Muggle repellant charms to repel the entire city. It was not that he strictly disliked muggles, but his family had funded the place, and, well – certain expectations had to be met.

He idly supposed he could remove them now if he wished. Lucius was under ten feet of earth somewhere in Wiltshire, and Narcissa locked up in that manor certainly wouldn't care if he invited muggles to _live_ with him, much less see the exterior of his home. But he was tired, and didn't need to change anything at the moment.

With a flick of his wand, he disabled his wards, temporarily lifting the Apparition ban he maintained when away from the apartment. He didn't mind guests when he was home, but it was the ones who wished to come when he was away that Draco preferred to prevent.

His owl, whimsically named Moses, sat at his desk on the main floor, surrounded by scattered treats. Moses hooted rather reproachfully at Draco, eyeing the treats with distaste, and Draco frowned at him, reminded of the day Blaise had chosen the muggle name just to be irritating, and took the parchment tied to the owl's talon. He penned a quick note, grabbed a few galleons from a purse on the desk, and dropped the coins into a small leather pouch. Attaching the lot to Moses he then, perhaps a little forcefully, tossed him out the window.

"I'll get that _Prophet_ subscription, Blaise, if it matters so damn much."

That done with, Draco surveyed his humble abode. The floo network let him in to the main living room, with a grand and somewhat austere fireplace surrounded by a network of couches and armoires. Two walls of the expansive room were nearly covered with windows, the third taken up by the fireplace, and the last dominated by a hallway leading to the kitchen.

Hunkering down on one of the sofas, Draco lit a fire with a neat flick of nonverbal magic, and propped up his feet, feeling pleasantly relaxed. His sofas on this floor were a softly oiled Italian leather, the perfect texture and very slightly overstuffed, so that a wizard might just recline and sink into them after a long day.

Probably not wizard work, he reflected. The fire was very warm, and his thinking seemed to be ever so slightly woozy. He couldn't really remember where he had purchased them. Details about who made what had started to blur after the war, and somehow it hadn't really seemed important at the time. Draco hadn't needed a _wizard-made_ Italian leather sofa, he had just needed an Italian leather sofa that perfectly matched the woodwork on his mantle. He supposed muggles probably had made it, and that was why he couldn't recall its origins.

Muggles. He yawned to himself. Why was he thinking about them so much? It was Granger, seeing her like that today. He couldn't get that image out of his brain, the way she had sworn so angrily. Her hair had seemed like a living extension of her, flaring with her wrath. The sort of people he surrounded himself were always so cool and professional. It was rare to see such vigorous displays of anything, and her raw passion had flattened him. He wondered if there was anything in his life he cared about as much as Hermione Granger cared about the rights of one tiny measly house elf.

Merlin, he thought. She probably cares about how much sugar is in her coffee more than I care about anything.

He was surprised to realize that he was drifting towards sleep, comfortably stretched out in front of the fire. Perhaps a quick nap before dinner.

Oddly, the last thing he would remember thinking before sleep clouded his brain completely, was that Hermione Granger certainly wouldn't take her coffee with sugar. No, he decided, she would take it plain, but probably with a dash of milk. It wasn't until the next morning, waking up with a horrible crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch, that he realized that was how he took _his_ coffee.

Now why would he go and think a thing like that?

0000

Why had she said that?

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, the palms of her hands pressing deeply into her eyes. She wanted to squash that image of Ron, all smug innocence and idiotic dismay, straight out of her retinas. But her brain kept replaying the memory, dredging it from whatever depths of her hippocampus held it, the feedback from her amygdala pouring the emotional significance over it like chocolate over a sundae. She lifted her head from her hands, trying to get a grip. She'd been reading too many muggle texts on neuroscience lately.

But why _had_ she said that?

Ron had been his usual self, intolerable, and she'd just been so angry. So, _so_ angry. She'd hexed him, and then he'd tried to hex her back (and he'd failed, obviously), she smiled a little bit at that part of the memory, and then he'd just _had_ to drag their relationship into it.

"Hermione, please, is this how you want to treat your ex-boyfriend?" He'd asked, a last ditch effort to appeal to her humanity, she supposed. "Hermione, _you_ broke up with me. If you want to get back together, all you have to do is ask." And then he smiled all condescendingly, and rage at had last fundamentally superseded every last grain of reasoning in the monumentally large frontal cortex of one Hermione Jean Granger.

"RON WEASLEY," she had shrieked, her voice climbing an octave with each syllable, "RON WEASLEY," steam was likely pouring from her ears like she'd had a defective draft of the pepper-up potion, and she could feel an artery racing in her temple, and wondered if she was about to rupture it and hemorrhage to death, "I would rather _marry Draco Goddamn Malfoy_ than ever _touch you again._ "


	2. Chapter 2

_**Bound**_

 **Chapter 2**

000

The second time he saw her was when the Head of the Wizengamot confronted her in the hallway.

Her smile was tight lipped but unbroken as she firmly shook her head. Draco noticed that her hair was once again tamed in a semblance of professionalism, today coiled at the nape of her neck with a sleekness that belied its volume.

He watched with interest as Hermione firmly denied one of the most powerful wizards in the country whatever he was asking. The Chief Mugwump's gestures became more and more frenzied, but she maintained her cool unblinking stare.

Draco edged closer, in time to hear her frosty, "Absolutely not, Gerald. You should know better than to ask." Draco winced, shocked out of his dislike of the muggleborn. High ranking in the ministry or not, one simply did not address the chief of the Wizengamot by his first name. Even more shockingly, however, was Gerald's apparent uncaring.

"Miss Granger, you must understand, we truly need this sort of legislation if we ever hope to repair—"

Hermione levelled a finger at his nose, as if she were scolding an unruly child. Her eyes narrowed. "I said no," she bit out, as if carving every word from stone, rather than air. "I won't hear another word about it. And unless—" Gerald opened his mouth, and her eyes narrowed further, her face beginning to draw toward a frown, and he promptly closed it. " _Unless_ ," she continued dangerously, "the Wizengamot wants every page of the Prophet for the next _five centuries_ to be devoted to their misdeeds, their mishandlings, the unfair trials they gave to war criminals, and _every single case I can dig up_ , then you will do as you have been told. I will personally summarize every case you have ever ruled on and print it for dissemination to the entire wizarding world, do you understand? I will say this one more time. We will have no more legislation that is not approved by me or the Minister of Magic, and we will have _no more_ laws differentiating those in the Wizarding world based on heritage. _Do you understand_?"

Gerald flushed, turned pale, flushed again, and then swallowed. "Yes," he muttered.

Hermione's eyes flashed. "Not good enough. The Wizengamot is no longer an unruly dictatorship that can run rampant. You are a law-making body subject to the proper procedures of law and order. Is that clear enough for you, or do I need to emblazon it across the entire sky? I have no more tolerance for your whinging on this, Gerald. I expect to be obeyed."

And then it was done. Hermione walked away, smoothing at the front of her robes as she strode down the corridor, not a hair out of place.

This time, her eyes didn't glaze over him in anger. She surveyed the hall in one long, cold glance, and then met his own eyes. He gave a little shock as she looked at him, seeing the anger his features sparked in most of those from his year at Hogwarts. Hermione met his gaze for a moment longer, those dark eyes boiling out of her otherwise unreadable face, and then swept out of his line of sight.

Draco resisted the urge to swing his head around and follow her with his eyes, instead staring at the spot she had just vacated as if he could see her footprints on the shimmering marble. The way her eyes had held him, drew him in, like an iron filing to a muggle magnet. He could still see himself in his mind's eye, trembling under her gaze, buffeted by her stronger force field, her indomitable willpower like a tangible number that was more than equal and opposite to his own, and overrun him completely.

Wizard idioms were difficult to come by, because even weather and natural phenomena could be explained by magic. Andromeda had once tried to explain to him the idea that muggles had phrases to account for the unknown, ways to shrug things off. But Draco rather felt, watching the spot where those practical, muggle black shoes had stood, that at that precise moment in time he understood the concept of wishing to explain the inexplicable. Hermione Granger, he thought bemusedly, was rather like some of the hurricanes that had hit the Manor in his youth. He had gone to the edge of the wards, where the wind and rain whipped at the invisible barrier, watching with a certain awe at the wrath of this non-magical, non-sentient _thing_ that was nature.

The phrase came slowly to mind, like surfacing from the lake, rising slowly from the water toward a bubble of sunlight. The words percolated up, cascading tiny tendrils as they settled, dust motes, feather light, into his consciousness. Andromeda had said it to him before, talking about Ted's personality back in school.

"A force of nature," she had called him. And Draco rather thought that sounded right.

0000

Hermione wandered away from Gerald and felt Malfoy's gaze running down her back, water droplets sliding off a cloak with a rain-repellant charm. She could feel them trickling, cool and unwanted, his eyes skimming along the line of her braid. Meeting his eyes always gave her a strange blend of exhilaration and revulsion, that bubbling slew of nerves and disgust. A litany of his misdeeds poured through her mind in a torrential downpour, listing all the horrible things he'd said to her in school, the spoiled child he was, and she felt dislike settle against her, a taint crawling up under her skin, poisoning the other aspect of the moment.

That other aspect – well, that was really the issue, wasn't it?

The way that meeting his eyes had felt exciting, how she'd felt bold, and terrible, and – beautiful? Hermione shuddered again, drawing her shoulders closer to her jaw. She was on a power trip, after giving Gerald a good tongue lashing, and she was simply looking for a second candidate to vanquish. And she would be the first to admit that it had been incredibly satisfying to stare Malfoy down, letting all the frustration of the morning fill her and directing it toward him. What had perhaps been less satisfying, if not wholly unexpected, was his sheer lack of reaction, his lack of fear, really, when she had done so. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd been the first to break a stare. But there something in his look, in those calculating, quantifying eyes, measuring her, assessing her, judging her, that she was unwilling to face.

So she walked away in the direction of her office, the feel of his eyes still on her, and charmed her windows to a rainstorm to match her mood.

At the tender age of 25, Hermione Granger was the Deputy Minister of Magic, and her specific area of expertise was law enforcement and regulation. She had been an auror for three years following the war, and then gone into the Ministry with the dream of reparations and equality for all.

After changing her window display, she popped in the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. Their muggle coffee pot stood on its heating pad, carefully charmed to remain bitingly hot all day. Splashing in some milk – just a dab, enough so that it wouldn't stain her teeth – she hurried on in to her office, throwing away the little box of sugar next to the coffee pot. People who polluted their coffee with sugar were _barbarians._

Once back in her office she sighed, flicking through the ever present pile of memos on her desk. Equality for all was such a wonderful dream, and at 21 she had been filled with idealism. But even just four years later she felt jaded and drained. She was still on track with her five year plan, carefully positioned as the next Minister, a shoe-in for the role, but some days seemed devoid of the excitement that she'd once felt. Even taking Gerald down a few pegs had lost some of its glow, nearing a weekly ritual at this point. It had been titillating to see herself through Malfoy's eyes, to think how she must have looked, snapping at Gerald and striding away in a huff. She wondered what Malfoy thought of her now. Did he still see the Hermione Granger of Hogwarts, with her bushy hair and know-it-all attitude? Hermione was sure that was what most people saw, even people who hadn't attended Hogwarts at the same time as her.

Or, (the more dangerous possibility entirely), did he see the woman she'd become, the passion and strength that had deepened her personality over the years, lending her a richness of character? There had been something in his face, some slight twitch of his features, that had made her wonder.

Hermione's knuckles where white and she realized she had ripped the memo in her hands. Mentally scolding herself for inattention, she focused in on the handwriting. Harry wanted to discuss further funding for the aurors. She snorted, scrawling a reply that they could meet for lunch and he could bring a presentation. Men and their toys; he probably just wanted to buy more dark detectors and barely functional rubbish from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

"Hermione?" Padma Patil's round face peered around the doorway, her long black hair falling in waves past her shoulders. "Blaise Zabini here to see you, he claims he has an appointment."

Befuddled, Hermione made a vague gesture with her hands, and Padma ducked out to send Blaise in. Before she quite realized it, the handsome man was sitting across her, looking for all the world like they were old chums.

"Hello, uh, Mr. Zabini," Hermione murmured. "You definitely don't have an appointment."

Zabini smiled at her, front teeth glinting sharply. If Hermione hadn't been Gryffindor to her very core, she would have called that smile 'predatory.' As it was, she noted that it was an awfully bold smile for an awfully tenuous acquaintance.

"Ms. Granger," he inclined his head. "Or is it Mrs. Weasley now? I must profess a dastardly ignorance on current events"

She raised a cool eyebrow. "Oh really? And why might that be?"

Slightly taken aback, he paused. "Well, I," he smiled.

"Have you been out of the country?" Hermione pressed.

"Well, no," Blaise replied, stalling, surprised by her acumen. Regaining his composure, he relaxed again. "I don't subscribe to _The Prophet_ , you see. Everyone knows it's been rubbish since Fudge."

Hermione nodded, unconvinced. She was accustomed to people trying to use Ron's name to throw her off balance. "I see. Well, I would recommend picking it up one of these days. It might surprise you."

"I will," the man said.

"Now," Hermione folded her hands. "Why are you here?"

Zabini eyed her for a long, protracted moment. He seemed to be sizing her up, and there was a certain light of approval in his eyes. "Please, call me Blaise."

"Very well, Blaise."

He inclined his head. "I'm throwing a charity gala at the late Nott's estate. You're aware that I acquired it during the settlement?" Hermione nodded. "It's been redone, and so it seems to be the perfect time to throw a gala."

Hermione was growing impatient. "And this is relevant to me how, exactly?" The words came out with a sharp edge.

"I have a very _specific_ charity in mind," Blaise said. His eyes were sharp now, too, matching her tone. "I think you'll agree with my choice."

Hermione unfolded her hands, placing them carefully on her desk. "What's in it for you?"

Blaise spread his wide, leaning back, the picture of ease. "Isn't for the good of the charity enough of a reason? I'm just a philanthropist, Granger, and my tender heart bleeds."

She raised her other eyebrow, and he grinned.

"What about improving the Zabini name? Taking back our rightful position in society, et cetera, et cetera."

Hermione wrinkled her nose at him. "What a terribly _Slytherin_ excuse, Zabini. You're disappointing me."

He laughed outright at that. "Very well, I suppose you're not the second most powerful witch in England for no reason. I should have remembered that. There are going to be a few _interesting_ people there, people who haven't been in the same room since our school years. I thought it could be quite… _interesting_ … to see what happened." It did not escape her that he re-used the word interesting rather than attribute another adjective to these people.

"A social experiment of sorts," she clarified.

"A crucible," he corrected. His smile was truly wolfish now. "Scared, Granger?"

0000

Hermione left her office that evening humming slightly to herself. It had been a good day, overall, and she had been fairly efficient. She'd even managed to convince Harry that the aurors could wait until November to appeal for further funding. The sultry June air hit her as she stepped out of the front entrance, surprising her. She'd forgotten to turn off the rainstorm in her office. Laughing softly to herself, she walked through the streets of muggle London toward a new restaurant where she was meeting Ginny and Luna. Despite her troubles with Ron, she'd remained close friends with the two women.

The small Italian bistro was dimly lit, but she picked out Ginny's red hair immediately and made a beeline for the table.

"Sorry I'm late," Hermione began, but they waved off her apology.

"You don't have to apologize," Luna said. "You're always late, so we know to expect it."

Ginny snickered. "Exactly – if you were early, we might die of shock."

Hermione frowned a little, but her heart wasn't in it. "Well, I have some juicy gossip to make up for my timing." They looked at her expectantly, and as she sat down, she quickly recounted the story of Blaise and the conclusion of his strange request.

"He asked if you were _scared_!" Ginny choked. "Is he still alive to tell the tale?"

Hermione glanced at Luna. The blonde simply shrugged at her. "I assume you agreed to attend, then?"

Hermione sputtered, looking between them. "I mean, well, what else could I do?"

"Um, tell him to go shove it?" Ginny suggested.

"Politely decline," was Luna's offer.

"Maybe I'll just take one of you as my date," Hermione threatened. "See how you like being called a coward."

Ginny raised a finger. "Hermione, he never actually called you a coward."

"He _implied_ it Ginny, which is as good as!" Hermione yelped. Ginny opened her mouth and she spoke over her. "Like you would have done differently."

At this, the redhead smiled ruefully. "True, but I'm supposed to be the one with the temper. You're supposed to be all cool logic and reason."

"I think that's me, actually," Luna interrupted dreamily. "You know, Ravenclaw and all."

"Did you really call him a Slytherin?" Ginny asked, redirecting the conversation. "How deliciously rude of you."

In the years following the war, the Slytherin house had been abolished, and replaced with a new house, Dragoneye, which prized politics, popularity, and strength rather than the old values of wiliness and cunning. The word Slytherin had become a terrible insult, and previous members of the house never spoke of their prior affiliation.

Hermione and Ginny exchanged glances. While it had always been slightly rude in Gryffindor to call someone a Slytherin, some of the old Hogwarts students hadn't fully adjusted to the weight the word had taken on over the years.

"He laughed," Hermione said defensively. "I imagine all those old cronies still get together and talk about the Slytherin glory days."

Luna shuddered delicately. "Do you really think so? I doubt it. They barely speak to each other in the halls of the Ministry. I think they're hoping everyone will forget that they were all in the same house." She paused, looking up at the ceiling. "Except for Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy, actually. I think they might be friends. Which is odd, considering that I always thought Malfoy was best friends with those two larger boys, Grabb and Coyle, wasn't it?"

Hermione snorted a laugh. "Crabbe and Goyle," she corrected. "And they weren't friends."

"They weren't?" Luna looked surprised. "But they were hardly ever apart."

"Yes, but that's just because Crabbe and Goyle did whatever Malfoy ordered, they were his henchmen or something."

Luna hummed to herself. "I suppose you know Malfoy better than I do," was what she said.

"I do not!" Hermione cried out, surprised at her sudden vehemence. "I don't know him at all! Besides," she cast around for a way to change the subject, "besides, I've never seen him with Zabini, so, you know him better!"

Ginny cut in, giving Hermione an odd look. "Well," she said coolly, "I knew he wasn't friends with Crabbe and Goyle and I've seen him with Blaise, so I suppose I know Malfoy best."

"Malfoy will likely be at this charity gala of Blaise's," Luna remarked, seeming to be very obviously not looking at Hermione.

"I know," Hermione said miserably. "I'd thought of that already. But I suppose that's why Blaise taunted me so viciously into agreeing. He knew if I thought about it for a minute I'd outright refuse."

Ginny frowned over at her. "What, because of Malfoy? Is he really still so bad?"

"He does always seem to have a Snarglepod on his shoulder."

Hermione ignored Luna. "I don't know, Ginny. I haven't spoken to him in years. I saw him the other day in the Ministry for the first time in ages."

For a long moment, Ginny stared at the menu, then she turned to Luna. "You know," she said, very, very casually. "I had the oddest discussion with Ron the other day." A pit of dread suddenly formed in Hermione's stomach. Leaden, acidic dread. "You see, Luna, he seemed to be under the impression that Hermione told him that before she would be willing to date Ron again, she'd rather marry Draco Malfoy, of all people." Ginny gave a silvery little laugh. "Isn't that interesting?"

Hermione blushed furiously. "I was _angry_!" She protested. "I'd just seen him in the hall, and I was thinking about how angry I was at Ron and that was the most awful thing I could think of."

"Really?" Ginny said dryly. " _That_ was the _most_ awful thing you could think of?"

"It was."

Luna leaned forward. "In that case, you should absolutely attend Blaise's gala next weekend."

Hermione spent the rest of dinner protesting that she didn't want to spend the entire evening being called a mudblood by her old enemies, but somehow Ginny and Luna had decided that it would be quite a grand joke for her to go and see what happened.

"Blaise did say it was going to be a crucible," Ginny reminded her, and Hermione almost growled.

"Then you go instead, and tell me how it is," she hissed.

Luna wagged a finger at her. "You already agreed to go," she reminded Hermione, much to the older woman's chagrin. "He trapped you into agreeing but you gave your word, so we all know that you'll be attending."

"Well," Hermione said firmly. "I won't enjoy it a single bit, I can promise you that."

For some reason, Ginny and Luna seemed to think that was even funnier.

0000

Draco shivered slightly as he walked toward the Ministry's designated Apparition hall. He suddenly was no longer feeling up to the spinning torture of the floo networks. He couldn't stop thinking about the way Hermione Granger had looked at him that morning, those diaphanous brown eyes glazed and snapping, dark pools of intelligence interwoven with a specific dislike for him. He wondered what had happened this time. He'd been reading _The Prophet_ religiously since he had last seen Granger.

A long day of meetings still hadn't yielded the business results he was hoping for, and he was thinking about selling the Quidditch team he'd whimsically bought after Lucius's death. No one seemed to want to be involved with a Malfoy, no matter how much he donated to charity or was seen handing out candy to orphans or whatever else it was that people did to try and improve their public image. Not for the first time, he considered hiring a publicity consultant, to try and help him drag his name out of the dirt. There had to be some way for him to keep the team and make enough profit off it to have it be his primary job. He just didn't know what that way was, exactly.

Somehow, he was unsurprised to find Blaise Zabini strolling the block in front of his apartment when he arrived outside. Blaise was wearing a huge, Cheshire-cat smile, and Draco half wondered whether he'd enter to find Moses missing and suspicious feathers littering the cage.

"How many canaries did you consume?" he asked the other man, and Blaise's grin, if possible, only grew wider.

"I have a proposition for you," he told Draco, who frowned.

"You know I hate those words in that order."

Blaise ran a hand through dark waves, his face almost a mirror opposite of Draco's. He was dark where Draco was light, laughing where Draco was frowning, playful and intimate where Draco was austere and reserved.

"Come now," he said. "Invite an old friend in, and hear me out. The gist of it is, I'm going to have a party. A grand, glittering affair. But I want it to be _fun._ I want it to have _drama_." He waved his hands. "I want people to be so drunk they're splinching themselves. I want aurors to have to break up duels in my garden. I want people spiking the punch with Veritaserum. That sort of thing."

Draco goggled at him, managing to close his mouth if only barely. "Oh," he finally managed. "So just a regular Tuesday night, then."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Bound**_

 **Chapter 3**

000

"Please, mother," Blaise found himself saying stiffly. His hands clamped the teacup in a muscular vice, a shambling semblance of a normal grip, and he knew that any further pressure would shatter the porcelain. "It would mean a _great deal_." He gritted out the last part, fighting not to audibly grind his teeth, and relaxed his hands. He reminded himself that frustration was the wrong way to deal with his mother.

Renalda Zabini eyed him across their tea table, eyebrows raised in an arch, questioning look that Blaise knew she had given all seven generations of husbands. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was all glamour charms, but he had grown up with those deep angular eyes and those pouty red lips, and knew that his own face reflected her well enough to see the truth to her appearance. She _was_ beautiful, truly, but somehow in a very deliberate way.

Among his friends, Blaise was considered almost bawdy. Compared to those quiet plotters he was loud, with bold tastes and a wild sort of exhibitionism that set him apart from the calculated machinations of Draco and Pansy. And yet, even with his supposed brashness and his bluster, he had always preferred women who were more genuine. Pansy's syrupy charms, her own sort of brashness, held no sway over him, reminding him too strongly of his mother's careful manipulations. Some of the old Gryffindors, perhaps, or even Draco's icy girlfriend, Astoria, were more to his taste. He wondered how that worked out, two icicles trying to make love. Draco and Astoria fucking… Merlin, it must be rather like doing it with someone who had a full Body Bind hex on them.

He let some of his smirk show on his face. Blaise, though far from a matchmaker, had his suspicions regarding Draco's wandering eyes. Something told him that the two wouldn't be formally attached for much longer.

"What are you smirking at, Blaise?" Renalda asked, rather sharply. She hated nothing more than being privately ridiculed. Not frustration, he reminded himself, Renalda could smell that a mile a way. He had to tease her. He breathed in through his nostrils, finding composure, and let his smirk grow wider.

"Nothing, mother dearest," he practically sung. "Now, may I use the estate this weekend, or not?"

He let the question hover, confident in his ability to annoy her into his desired response, even should all else fail.

A tiny thread of guilt niggled at his mind. He ignored it, staring stonily at his mother. Even to himself, he refused to admit that his own curiosity regarding Draco's interest in a certain muggleborn had spiraled out of hand. The whole party wasn't to bring them together per se, Blaise justified frantically. It was just one of the benefits. The main benefit of the benefit, he thought to himself, smirked again at the pun, then turned the smirk into a glare at his mother.

"I really don't know, Blaise," she was saying. "House elves?"

He spread his hands wide. "You know me, mother," he simpered. "I just _care._ "

It was Renalda's turn to grind her teeth. Blaise's smile stretched as wide as his hands, and he made his eyes round and innocent. It was the same look he used when lying or denying, and it was almost unbeatable.

His mother sighed, rolling her eyes. "Oh, fine," she said. "Well, come and kiss me in gratitude."

Anger flared in Blaise again and one of his hands trembled, itching to crush one of those petitely beautiful teacups. But he forced himself to yawn with ennui, stretching idly before strolling over to breathe quickly in the vicinity of his mother's perfumed face.

"Always a pleasure, mother dearest," he cooed.

Her pouty lips pursed, and she pulled his collar closer to plant a sticky lipstick kiss on his cheek. "When will you marry, Blaise? I yearn for more delicate company."

"Whenever I find someone as… _charming_ … as you, of course," Blaise called over his shoulder, already walking away. He slung his coat casually over one shoulder and used the other hand to sling his fashionably long black hair off his forehead. He was so achingly casual in stance and gait that an observer might not even notice that he despised the woman still sitting. Seven men dead on her hands at the very minimum, and she was slippery as a basilisk. He shuddered, one hand wiping at the lipstick on his cheek, and slipped through the door. What a mess.

The preparation for his gala took practically the whole week. First, he had to browbeat Draco, relentlessly appearing outside of the man's house at odd hours of the day and flooding him with owls. He had to alternate between encouraging Draco's attendance, reminding him that he'd already given his word, cajoling him with promises of the fun to be had, and then threatening him with dire consequences should he refuse to show. And he had to balance it on a knife's edge, just jolly Zabini, casually herding everyone to his party at wand point.

Then, he had to invite the proper selection of guests, hire caterers, a band, tables, a podium – he was sure Granger would want a podium – and figure out décor. Then he had to chase down all the other old Slytherins (they still thought of themselves as such, of course) – and swear them to good behavior, no spells, only duels with each other, no hunting down of old grudges, etc. Just the usual pre-party precautions, but even so. And _then_ , after all that, he had to hunt down everyone else interesting who'd been in Hogwarts in their year, and bully, beg and plead them into attending too. By the time he had sworn Pansy to an Unbreakable Vow that she wouldn't kill anyone on purpose or by accident, and tracked Zacharias Smith down between shifts at Gringotts, he was frankly exhausted.

His brain was so addled with the exhaustion that he _even_ tried to invite Ginny Potter and her husband, but she flatly refused, though with a spark of humor in her eye that made Blaise wish he'd thought to invite them earlier.

And then it was back to the mundane details, buying food and arguing with the caterers about courses and dishes and trying to figure out how to get the damned venue clean and free of dark objects, Merlin damn Nott to hell.

Laughing to himself, Blaise thought that throwing this party would be a perfect use of a house elf – a team of house elves.

But finally, all that was left to do was spread as much gossip and drama as humanly possible before the night began, and let the chips fall as they may. A difficult task – but someone had to do it. He left fake bottles of veritaserum scattered through the men's toilets in the Ministry and told Ron Weasley in confidence that he'd bought three batches to spike the punch with. He told Ernie Macmillan that Justin Finch-Fletchley had threatened Millicent Bulstrode with a duel, and then he told Millicent Bulstrode that Hannah Abbott and Neville Longbottom had decided to elope and wanted to hold the ceremony at his party. He put on poor disguises and bought huge amounts of love potions from the Weasley store while muttering about "Friday night." He made Pansy swear a blood oath not to tell anyone that Daphne Greengrass was having an affair with Draco behind her sister Astoria's back, and then he told Astoria that Pansy had been spreading rumors about her. He wheedled and insulted Parvati and Padma Patil until they grudgingly agreed to come and then he told everyone he knew that two seers were attending. He even asked Astoria if it was true that Draco's fetishes involved putting Full-Body Bind hexes on her and couldn't restrain himself from then promptly breaking into hysterical fits of giggles.

The week crept along, then sped, then crept again, then flew, and Friday night came.

0000

Oh Merlin, did Friday night come.

The third time he saw her – oh, _Merlin_ , did he see her – the third time he saw her was at the – thrice-damned son of Voldemort, the _third_ time in barely as many weeks – the _third_ time he _saw her_ , _he_ saw _her_ , and it was at Blaise's damned dumb charity gala, and the charity was S.P.E.W., and Draco almost cried when he found that out, and _then he saw her_. It was like watching a turquoise wave break into foamy flecks as it crested the shore. It was like seeing the sun set into a shimmering veil of mist on an autumn night. It was like an unseasonably warm breeze of spring blowing tremulously across his face. It was like the first time he had ridden a broom, his stomach dropping and his pulse racing, his head spinning and wind whipping around his face, with the ground receding below him, and the surety in his chest that this was the _wildest_ thing he could ever do, and that he would never, never set his feet down again on the grass.

So Draco Malfoy looked at Hermione Granger, and the third time – well, he sees her.

He watched her all night with hot, hungry eyes, and he was beyond caring what people thought. He knew it was probably obvious, the smoldering look in his gaze when it caught the way her hair fell, curling around one side of her neck to caress her shoulder. He knew it was obvious, yet found that his lifelong adherence to social norms had been slowly burning away over the past few years, carefully pruned and finally wilting, yielding to a much stronger force altogether. (Desire).

Later, much later, he will lie in bed trying to remember how it happened, but in the moment, all he could do was surrender.

The night blurred in his mind, everything running together like a child's painting, and Blaise kept on yammering about house elves – _house elves!_ of all things – and Draco kept assiduously ignoring him, wholly consumed with Granger, and Astoria tried to talk to him, and maybe someone else, and then he touched her hand.

"I know you saw me in the Ministry the other day," she snapped, pulling her hand away, her voice a cool chime.

His tongue felt thick. He wondered if Blaise had put poppy in the punch, the opiate kind. Or perhaps he had made good on his Veritaserum threat. The truth burned as it rolled off his tongue. "I saw you," he said. "Granger."

She stared at him. "Malfoy, I think you're drunk," she replied, almost wonderingly, and he thought his hair must be in disarray, and perhaps he was flushed, and yet he still didn't care.

"I'm not drunk," the words came, again truthful, "but I think I'd like to be."

Hermione almost smiled at him, and the suppression of the natural instinct was somehow coquettish, even done by accident. She passed him a drink, her eyes suddenly hard and wary. "This might help. It's too strong for me."

He saw the lipstick imprint on the cusp of the martini glass from where she had sipped. He could have laughed hysterically. She thought he was sneering down at her, thinking about her _blood status_ , thinking he would refuse to drink from the same cup as a muggle born, when in reality she couldn't have been further from the truth. When in reality, there was nothing he would like better than to crush those very same muggle born lips to – and Draco slammed a barrier down on that errant thought, realizing that the moment had already gone on far too long. Hermione's eyes were beginning to narrow.

Carefully, slowly, deliberately, as he did all things, he rotated the delicate blown-glass stem of the martini in his fingers, so the lipstick marks were directly beneath his chin. He raised it to his mouth, planted his lips atop those loud red markings, emblazoning his own skin with that which had just barely been coated on hers, and tipped the liquid into his mouth. It burned all the way down. It was like someone had poured muggle gasoline down his throat, then murmured a hurried _incendio_.

He would have been gratified with a gasp, or maybe an exclamation, but Hermione Granger simply watched him, eyebrows slightly raised. Radiating a mixture of fury and satisfaction, she gave a slow nod.

"Well," was all she said. "That'll certainly help with the whole drunkenness quest."

That moment would stand out in his mind for the rest of his life. The moment when he had grabbed her glass, and placed his lips where hers had been, perhaps just a second before, and tasted some lingering, infinitesimal remnant of her breath.

Then more: more conversations, a speech, and his fingers continually rose to his mouth, touching his lips, wondering if any lipstick had smeared from the glass to his lips.

He found her again.

"Granger," he murmured, leaning close to speak in her ear.

She recoiled sharply, putting distance between them. "Don't skulk, Malfoy," she snapped. "What is it?"

"The gardens," he managed to choke out. "Walk with me."

She frowned. "Was that a request, or a command? Was that even a complete sentence?" She looked surprised to have spoken the last out loud.

"Neither," he gasped. "Both." And then. "Please."

The lack of shock earlier was made up for now, as she stared at him in utter astonishment.

They were walking in the gardens, Theo Nott's old manor home that Blaise Zabini had acquired after his mother settled a very large sexual harassment lawsuit against the old Death Eater. In short, it was everything a manor home should be, with tall manicured hedges and pretty little paths, delicately carved stone benches interspersed in nooks surrounded by flowers. Silvery lights floated on strings, and the whole thing was suffused with the gentle perfume of roses.

Draco thought he might be sick. His blood simmered, sending strange tendrils and trills of nerves up and down his arms. He offered an arm to her, like any gentleman would, but she refused, and they continued to walk until he couldn't take another step. He decided to try again.

"Granger," he began, and she cut him off.

"Is that the only word you know?" she asked acidly. "I never thought I'd be subjected to a Gothic Draco Malfoy following me around all night drawling my surname in my ear."

He folded his arms. "I'm hardly Gothic," he retorted angrily. "I prefer to think of myself as pre-Romantic, anyways."

She snorted. "Listen, Malfoy, I really don't know what's gotten into you. But if you didn't notice, I'm actually the guest of honor, so—" This time, he cut her off.

"Look," he said angrily, the frustration rising in him like a tide. His blood was heating further, and he realized he was getting angry, angry at her denseness for so clever a woman. "Look, Granger, I've got to talk to you. And no, it's not some ploy or trick, so don't give me any more lipstick-coated tests."

She had the upbringing to look a bit chagrined at that, and inclined her head slightly, waiting for him to go on.

His momentary anger had faded, and he was left once again speechless, all of his senses consumed by her proximity. If it were possible, up close she seemed even more beautiful, those large dark eyes shining so intelligently out of her pale face. Her skin glowed creamy soft in the silvery light, and long ringlets of curls hugged that achingly arched neck.

"I dislike you," he said. "Historically, extremely." She frowned, but still didn't interrupt, so he barreled onwards, but suddenly the words didn't come out as he'd intended.

"I also want to kiss you," is what he said. "Extremely badly."

The memory of those words will always be accompanied by her look, of almost comedic shock and surprise, her mouth half open as she'd prepared to respond, then stopped at his confession, her eyes wide and with just a hint of anger, her eyebrows slightly drawn together. Her lower lip hung, round and full, and her tongue darted out to moisten it.

And then they were kissing.

He knew that part was right, knew that it had happened. The memory was burned into him like a brand, like her lipstick, like that martini. He was sure it had happened. It must have happened. But he could barely remember anything else. (But he did remember that).

The whole evening was dreamlike, essentially gone from his memory. Lost. He knew they had kissed – had he kissed her? Had she kissed him? – he knew they had kissed, and he had drunk from her glass, but – which was more significant? They had kissed, he had sipped, he had tasted her lipstick and her lips, she had been wearing a turquoise dress (he did remember that), he had touched her hand, but they had _kissed_ and had she been angry after? Or had she run away? He had said something, he knew he had, he always said _something_ and it was likely wrong but – had he drunk from her _glass_? What had possessed him?

Had they – had she – would she – had _she_ kissed _him_?

But – but surely not. He had said he wanted to kiss her (he did remember that) – he had said "I also want to kiss you," he knew he said that – he wished he hadn't, maybe – he was glad he had, honestly – it had been the truth. (He did remember that).

If he had been a braver man, he would have admitted more than that simple truth. He would have seen the truth to the whole evening, would have had the self-knowledge to realize how a woman can consume a man and the dimness of a memory is directly correlated to the level of consumption. He might even have put a word choice to it, have recognized that evening as the first time his _desire_ for Granger may have superseded the bounds of that word entirely.

But he had never made any pretensions to bravery.

He lay awake in bed, the vision from his left eye blurred by the pounding of his headache. He wondered if his skull was about to splinter down the middle, as the throbbing in his temples marched through his brain, an infinitesimal delay between his carotid pulse and the temporal throb of agony, the pain washing through him in waves, the nausea another beat behind.

This type of pain was familiar like an old friend, the cruel pulsatile pounding, the welcome cleansing nausea. The migraines came from stress or emotional upheaval, one of the healers had told him. There were potions he could take for them, but many were just glorified sedatives, so if he had been drinking, they weren't recommended.

Sometimes, it seemed, there was no choice but to embrace the pain, laying back against his pillows and letting it throb through him.

So he lay back and let the waves of pain wash over him, the pounding of each beat matching the answering pulse in his stomach, and every pound seemed to bring her image to the forefront of his mind, Hermione, Hermione, Hermione. He thought he might die. It was unbearable.

Draco rolled over on his side, her eyes in his eyes, her lips on his lips, the searing pound of his skull, the watery, haloed vision of his left eye, and slept.

0000

She had gone to the party because she had agreed to it. Or, rather, she had agreed to it, and so she went. Blaise had _tricked_ her into it, but she had agreed, and Hermione Granger was a woman of her word. Well, perhaps Blaise hadn't exactly tricked her, but the general idea was fairly similar.

Hermione frowned at her nail. The whole night just didn't make sense. She was a linear person. She thought in straight lines, with obvious conclusions and she didn't like guessing. But all she could do in this instance was guess.

Things had started out normally enough, Blaise had set up the usual Apparition points and taken all the typical precautions, and her speech had gone well enough. There'd been that very strange conversation with Malfoy that had resulted in him drinking her martini – she didn't even want to go into _that_ right now – and then the night had been almost fun. She'd talked with some friends, some other ministry members, and a few people had asked her surprisingly insightful questions regarding house elf welfare. Blaise had been an excellent host, mingling people with an artistic touch, and the decorations really had been stunning.

The very human caterers, she smiled at that memory, had outdone themselves, and she'd enjoyed the selection of finger foods on a level with Molly Weasley's home cooking. The drinks, made with wizarding liquor, had been too strong for her taste, so she hadn't really drunk to excess.

Which is why she was home now, sipping on a cup of decaf coffee with just a splash of milk, wondering what in all of Dante's nine hells had just happened. She dipped her pinky finger into the liquid and dragged it over the rim of the mug.

It had all been so sudden. Her anger, his anger – Hermione blocked out the martini situation for a second time – the way he had asked her to walk with him. The raw despair of his tone when he'd said _please_. Honestly! As if she could have done anything but follow him. And then he'd – _they'd_ – kissed. It had just been one of those things. One of those spur of the moment, inexplicable urges. And they'd acted on it, and now it was done, and their worlds would return to normal.

She put her hands on her eyes, pressing the palms in until fireworks exploded across her vision. If it had been such a _normal_ thing to do, then why did she feel like she was going crazy?

What had possessed her to stare at him like that, to long for the words he said, to be surprised when he spoke what she hadn't known she'd felt, until she'd watched his lips form the thought: "I also want to kiss you." Hermione felt her stomach clench uncomfortably in remembrance. Why did she find it so satisfying that he had wanted that; that she had been the recipient of that intensity of desire. Why did she feel like she had _won_ something?

Why did she want to continue the game?

As she moved through the ritual of getting ready for bed, sliding out of her turquoise dress robes and unclasping her hair from its cleverly crafted net of pins and clips, she wondered what Draco Malfoy would think of her now. Would he still think her pretty, even kissable, with her lipstick wiped off, dark eyes tired against her face? Hermione supposed he had kissed more women than she had kissed men, ludicrous as it was to speculate on. She had kissed Ron and one other man, a healer from Saint Mungos. And now, Draco Malfoy.

She glanced in the mirror again, the muggle toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. The oversize white T-shirt she slept in fell to mid-thigh, and her long curly hair, beginning to frizz after its release, hung around her in snares and curls alike, tangled and wild. The woman in the mirror looked awfully young, and unsure of herself.

Abruptly, the situation felt absurd. "It's just one little kiss," she snapped. "You've got an entire department to worry about and a law to pass." She pulled her hair back and firmly began to braid it. No more stray thoughts about idiotic wild women who went gallivanting about kissing men they hated in moonlit gardens. She lived in the real world, and it was time to act like it.

The next morning, Hermione headed to Diagon Alley with a grim determination. It wasn't her habit to go out on Sundays, but she felt the need to put her mind to something other than a constant recycling of the previous night's memories.

 _His eyes_. She stomped on the thought, her foot breaking through the shimmering surface of a London puddle, and she imagined her memories shattering like the water, tiny bonds rotating and dispelling as her shoe disrupted the surface tension of the molecules. She thought about the time in primary school when they had each brought in a pound coin and used eye droppers to slowly add water to the coin, watching as the water formed a slow dome on the top, and the teacher had explained that it was all the tiny molecules, desperately clinging together – _hydrogen bonds_ , though wizards didn't care for chemistry, but Hermione knew what they were – and she felt that her grip on reasonableness and sensibility was sometimes just as tenuous as all that water, precariously balanced on a coin.

She had added the final droplet of water to the coin and watched as the surface tension broke.

Diagon Alley. She was walking to the Leaky Cauldron, she would wander Diagon Alley a bit, maybe stop in to Weasley's for a bit of a distraction, and pick up a new book at Flourish and Blott's. She needed to remember who she was and remind herself of what she was doing.

The Leaky Cauldron was comfortably deserted and companionably filthy, exactly how it always was, and its unchanging nature despite the perceived upheaval of her world went a long way toward soothing Hermione's (admittedly frazzled) nerves. Curving through the dusty tables, she headed to the back alley, tapping the bricks and stepping through to Wizarding London.

Seized by the desire for coffee, Hermione headed to Florien Fortescue's, ordering a large espresso drink with charmed swirls of caramel on top. They made the coffee sickly sweet, but a hangover drink was a hangover drink. Turning away from the counter bursting with ice creams, hot chocolates and coffees, Hermione almost bumped into the stately blonde woman behind her. Astoria Greengrass had her long hair pulled away from her face, and was wearing some sort of Egyptian-style headdress that left one huge emerald dangling from a gold chain against her forehead. Hermione goggled at the ungainly stone, the shade of which nevertheless perfectly matched the woman's deep green dress robes. She certainly didn't look like someone who'd been up until the middle of the morning at Blaise Zabini's party, drinking like it was the end of the world.

Running her eyes over Hermione, Astoria's upper lip drew up in a sneer. "I saw _Draco_ talking to you," she hissed.

Hermione felt as though someone was trying to drag her stomach out of chest through her esophagus, but with a huge effort of will she managed to keep her breathing normal. "Did you, now?" she mused. "Surprising, given that you were too drunk to stand."

"I saw him drink from your _glass,_ you filth," Astoria spat. "I bet you think there is no prejudice left in the world, you in your blind little circle of idealism."

From the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed Florian entering the room from the back kitchen and gave a tiny shake of her head. The grandfatherly old man backed away, closing the swinging door silently behind him.

Hermione casually shook moved her right arm, feeling the cool length of her wand slide into her hand. "You'd better watch yourself, Astoria," she said calmly, the wood in her hand heating from the warmth of her skin. "Remember who it is that I am, these days. Words like that could get you arrested, or…" Hermione trailed off, looking at the other woman meaningfully. She'd learned long ago in government that the most effective threats were ones that the other person filled in themselves.

Astoria blanched, then recovered her composure. She grabbed a half full glass from an empty table and flung it at Hermione, who was too shocked to deflect a non-magical attack. The cup hit her squarely in the middle, emptying cold coffee all over her blouse.

"You watch yourself, Granger," she spat, anger contorting her pretty features. "Draco Malfoy is _my_ boyfriend, and I won't have him seen in the company of muggles." It was a measure of her fear of Hermione that she only used the word muggle, rather than a more insulting slur.

Watching the blonde's retreating back, Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You seem awfully worried about the attentions of your supposed boyfriend, Astoria," she called after her. "Scared he's not really _yours_ after all?"

A handsome young man walked into the ice cream parlour after Astoria slammed the front door, and belatedly Hermione realized that she was standing in the middle of the room with her pale pink blouse drenched in cold coffee. He gave her a very strange look, and she hastily began clearing the mess, still smarting from the encounter.

First Malfoy, now this. She shook her head ruefully. Merlin send that was the worst of it, or else it seemed likely that she'd get nothing done at work tomorrow.

Leaving the shop with apologies to the owner, and her latte clutched firmly in hand, Hermione wondered idly if Malfoy really was dating Astoria. He certainly couldn't think so, and given Astoria's hysteria, it was likely a one-sided invention. Even so, the thought gave her pause. Kissing Malfoy was bad enough, but kissing a Malfoy with a girlfriend? Hermione shuddered.

And what on earth had Astoria been wearing? Suddenly Hermione let out a quick giggle. That emerald on her forehead had been absolutely hideous, set into some huge gaudy contraption of gold. She couldn't help herself, and started laughing in earnest. Several passerbys gave her odd glances, but it seemed the funniest thing in the world. What a terribly strange morning. The past twenty four hours, in fact.

"Hermione?" someone asked. "Why're you giggling to yourself like a nutter?"

Hermione looked up at George Weasley, standing outside his shop. He was wearing a cardboard cutout of a hotdog, magically enchanted so that the tail kept wiggling and the toppings continuously changed places. She looked him slowly up and down, and sighed. Truly, this day could get no more strange.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Bound**_

 **Chapter 4**

000

He was awakened by fear. Clutching, clawing panic, closing his airway. He gasped, kicking off his blankets, migraine forgotten in the moment. Frantically he gulped at nothing, trying to force air into the collapsing cartilage of his trachea, chest heaving like a bellows as he worked to suck in, push out. The sweat seeped out of his pores, clammy in the tepid bedroom, and he slowly began to relax. The feeling began to subside and he looked around. Draco hadn't had a panic attack in years, not since the nightmares had subsided. The feeling of being watched hung over him, and fear tickled the edges of his nostrils.

Not quite fear, he realized. More like, anxiety. Or perhaps apprehension. He had kissed _her_. Or, she had kissed him. They had kissed.

When would he see her again?

0

"Oi, wake up!"

Someone was kicking his feet, and Draco quickly wrenched them further up inside the blankets.

"Get up, you bloody oaf," someone was sniping at him, now resorting to poking.

Draco groaned and rolled over, curling even further into a ball, the memory of the previous night's migraine and subsequent panic – or had it been a nightmare? – slowly returning.

"Draco, why is Astoria on my doorstep looking like she's just chewed nails?"

He cracked one eye. The sunlight seemed awfully loud. "Blaise?"

"Damn right man, it's Blaise, now get up and explain yourself!"

"How'd you get in here?"

Blaise stopped in the middle of poking one of his feet again. "Through the front door?" he asked, staring at Draco like he was insane.

Draco sat up. "What about things like locks and _wards_ ," he said acidly.

"Apparently they don't apply to Zabinis," Blaise replied, smug.

Noticing that he wasn't wearing a shirt, Draco felt around by his bed for something he'd discarded the night before. His hands found a sweaty pajama shirt, presumably ripped off during his panic, and he sighed, forgoing the clothing.

"What do you want, autonomous Zabini that you are?"

Blaise sat on the edge of the bed, pushing Draco's feet out of the way. "I've already told you. I want to escape Astoria, and also to understand why she's on my doorstep at this hour of the morning."

"I expect it has something to do with me," Draco said. Guilt tickled on the edge of his conscience. He truly hadn't behaved like a proper Malfoy last night, but on the list of proper Malfoy behaviors, deceiving his girlfriend was probably the least of his transgressions.

"You think?" Blaise said dryly. "I expect it has something to do with the way you completely ignored her last night, instead trailing after a certain muggleborn witch like a –" Draco ricocheted out of bed, his wand appearing in his hands before he even knew what had happened, glaring at Blaise with an atypical ferocity.

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," he growled, holding his wand in front of Blaise's nose.

The darker man stared him down calmly, watching as the wand wavered slightly with every pound of Draco's head.

"What will you do to me, Draco?" he asked, voice low and silken, his lips curving at the edges, hands folded in his lap. It was impossible to tell if he was amused, offended, or both. "Will you hex me? Curse me? Oh, put that thing away," he finally snapped, exasperation creeping into his voice. "And sit down."

Draco sat down, alarmed by how unwilling his legs had been to support him standing. "It seems you already have a pretty well-formed theory regarding Astoria's motivations," he told Blaise. "So what is it that you want from me?"

Blaise laughed, stretching his arms behind his head and leaning back against the footboard. "Why, confirmation of course!" he cried delightedly. "Now," he said, "now that's settled. Tell me what's been going on."

What _had_ been going on? "I'm not in the habit of making confessions to you," Draco grouched. Blaise simply watched him. "But," Draco finally managed to grit out, "I've found myself in a bit of a predicament, of late. A state to which I am unaccustomed, if you will."

"I will," Blaise nodded, making a circular beckoning motion with one hand that entreated Draco to continue.

"I haven't seen Astoria in about a week," Draco muttered.

"Because?" Blaise pressed.

"My team has been having… funding difficulties," Draco said delicately. They were stone cold broke, and Blaise knew it as well as he. "So a few weeks ago I began to go to the Ministry in search of patrons, or deals with the Department of Magical Games and Sports – what have you. And I saw a few old classmates around and was, well, _surprised_ , shall we say, at the difference a few years had wrought."

Blaise quirked an eyebrow.

"I was also surprised at the change in my own… outlooks," Draco hedged. "Specifically, my outlooks on, women. A woman." He glared at Blaise. "You're taking this awfully well."

"Oh Draco," Blaise said, shaking his head. "Draco, Draco, Draco. Must I explain everything to you? Very well then. There's precious little overlap between promiscuity and blood purity. Every wizard worth his salt who wishes to – shall we say, play the pitch – soon discovers that they can't clutch too tightly to childish notions of heritage."

Draco gaped at him. "You?"

Blaise nodded confirmation. "Me. I don't care anymore."

"You never said anything to me."

"Well, I wasn't holding out much hope that you'd have some sort of moral reckoning with yourself," Blaise replied. "I figured the subject just wouldn't ever come up."

"I'm hardly having a moral reckoning," Draco said. "It's not even moral. It's just one particular… woman. Moral. Just one. One reckoning. Thought. Discussion." He almost blushed at how insensible he must sound.

"Moral reckoning," Blaise sang. "And you'll have to phrase it like that when you approach her, you know. Women are much less impressed if they think you've only changed because you want to trip them into bed. They think highly of you if you say you've been questioning the ideals you were raised with for a while and recently saw the error of your ways." He nodded sagely to himself. "Yes, women do love humility."

"Hardly my forte," Draco said in response to Blaise's soliloquy. He was _not_ cross, and definitely did _not_ grumble the words out.

"Hardly being the understatement of the year," Blaise crowed.

The conversation generally went downhill from there.

After the two men had finished sniping at each other, Blaise helped Draco find some reasonable clothes to dress in and Side-Along Apparated him to Blaise's apartment, where there was coffee and eggs. Astoria was thankfully absent from the doorstep ("she's probably moved on to your doorstep, mate,") and they sat for a while in silence as Draco's headache slowly began to recede. He carefully avoided thinking about the turn their conversation had taken before they'd left his place.

"I suppose I'm going to have to dump Astoria," he told Blaise lightly, changing the subject.

"I suppose."

Draco gestured to the other man with his forkful of eggs. "Any advice from our resident Lothario?"

Blaise choked on his sip of coffee, spraying it across the table. "Draco!" he cried in an agonized tone, "I'm hardly a Lothario! I think of myself much more in the style of a Casanova."

Draco snorted inelegantly. "Very well, _Casanova_ , any advice on how to break up with a woman without being hexed?"

"That depends, does she know you snogged someone else's face off last night?"

Draco stopped breathing. Blaise's easy smile suddenly seemed brittle, a thin sheen clinging to his face and hiding anger underneath.

"Forgot to mention _that_ salient little detail about last night, didn't we?" he asked Draco.

There was a long silence, and the two men watched each other across the table. Blaise held his gaze, black eyes demanding, and Draco looked away first.

"Astoria doesn't know," he said simply. "And I wasn't planning on informing her." _Or you_ , hung in the air after the sentence.

"I won't pretend not to be offended that you'd hoped to keep me in ignorance," Blaise said airily. "But luckily for you, I know everything, so I was able to spare you the future pain of choking out that little anecdote."

"I'm eternally grateful," Draco said sarcastically.

Blaise waved it off. "It's nothing, nothing. Any good friend would do the same."

"Would they now?"

And suddenly they were both laughing, snorting into their coffees and inhaling the eggs before they became colder than they already were.

"Just tell her, listen Astoria, you're a prize heifer, but I need more than a two-galleon cow."

"She's not _that_ boring," Draco snapped at Blaise. "And you know I hate it when you adopt that belittling sort of language to discuss women."

Blaise sneered at him. "How terribly _feminist_ of you. One might forget you were ever even a Slytherin."

Draco shrugged, looking down at his eggs, but Blaise continued speaking.

"It's my mother's fault, really," he shrugged, black hair tousling around his face. "Thanks Freud," he tipped an imaginary hat, "great wizard that you were. But she used to speak about other women in that sort of competitive tone, and I've been meaning to kick it. Not all of us have had our crises of conscience yet… Not all of us have met the right witch, one might say, to help us on our way."

Draco frowned at him. "I'm not having a crisis of conscience. And besides, didn't you say you'd already had yours, when you decided to spread the vast Zabini virtues across as wide a pool of women as possible?"

"Delicately put," Blaise mused. "I may have to use that. You've always had a way with metaphors. Something women must appreciate in you, I'm sure."

Maturity had its limits, and Draco's had been reached. He picked up the toast from the side of his plate and threw it at Blaise, who ducked smoothly, coming up tutting.

"Tsk tsk, and you know I had really expected better aim from an ex-seeker."

"Sometimes I wonder if you cracked your head a little too hard during the war," Draco told him tartly. "It's a wonder you can still function with all your secretive little laughs and smarmy jokes."

Blaise nodded, seemingly in agreement. "Wonders never cease," he said gaily, and Draco threw up his hands.

"I'm off to break up with Astoria, I suppose, and then –" _And then find Granger_ , he wanted to say, but choked that desire back down. "And then I'm going to tell Pansy that if your head gets any fatter you'll fall over in the mornings trying to get out of bed. You're too smart for your own good by half, and it's astonishing that no one has even _tried_ to murder you yet."

Blaise grinned widely in that familiar Cheshire cat style. "Who says they haven't _tried_?"

Grumbling, Draco disapparated to Astoria's, preparing for a conversation he wasn't eager to have.

000

They passed each other in the hall and it was with a stony-faced silence that sent lurches down through Hermione's entire abdomen.

She saw him from miles away, it felt like, and her throat closed up. They walked toward each other and her hands trembled slightly, and she had to remind herself that she was a career woman with an active social life, friends and family, and – it all seemed to run out of her mind like water down the drain.

He was tall, as tall as Ron, standing long and lean among the diverse crowd of wizarding folk, and his hair was swept to the side. Not as the boys she loved did it, the accidental tousled look, nor even like the photos of James Potter that Harry had shown her, with the accidental-on-purpose sort of ruffling. No, the way Draco Malfoy wore his blonde hair, just a little long, just a little styled, reminded her of the pure, arrogant beauty of Sirius Black.

Her own aesthetic was much the same, with her tamed hair swept into a chignon today, though she had allowed some tendrils to creep around her face. Hermione rather liked a personal-professional fusion that she believed could be reflected in the wearer's attire.

His eyes glued to hers after a moment; a moment she had stared too long, and she was caught in those roiling mercury depths. They bored into hers, a hint of that arrogant smile creeping at the corners of his lips, making her stomach burn in frustration, and she genuinely thought for a minute that he would greet her, casually, as if nothing had happened, and she would be left, furious at herself for worrying about the encounter, and still furious at him for the party. Instead, despite that penetrating gaze and all that had happened between them recently, or perhaps because of it, his eyes glassed over as they approached one another and one eyebrow quirked.

He _ignored_ her.

As he walked by her, she caught the full-face impact of his cologne, a heavy, minty, evergreen sort of scent.

Hermione almost screamed. She could have broken a plate over his head. How _dare_ he?!

She marched back to her office in a rage and told her secretaries in scathing terms to admit no one for at least thirty minutes, as she was doing paperwork. Then, snapping the door shut behind her in a manner that could possibly be called a slam, Hermione picked up the large bin of memos that sat beside her desk and methodically began to shred them into the wastepaper basket.

To _think_ that she had been about to tell Ginny and Luna about the events of the party, and giggle with them over what it could mean. The _humiliation_. The gall of him! How dare he ignore her, _her_! The most powerful witch in the Ministry, not to mention the woman he had kissed spontaneously at a party last weekend!

She torched one memo and watched with intense satisfaction as it billowed up in a gout of flame. Another, she hit with a jelly legs jinx, purely out of curiosity, and watched as its wings began to wobble and it floated from the air to her desk in a dazed spiral.

 _Honestly_ , Malfoy, to ignore her! Well, he would get nothing further from Hermione Granger, and that was that. To think – the absurdity of it! She could almost laugh, if she weren't so angry.

"That's what you get for tangling with Malfoy," she muttered firmly to herself, and one memo collapsed into a fine white dust.

"Intolerable man," she huffed. Then, looking regretfully at the mess she'd created, Hermione sighed. She supposed that all the departments would simply have to resend if the memos had been important.

000

Ironically, because half the time Draco despised the man, and the other half of the time he ignored him, it had been Blaise who had made him think of it.

He sat in his study, reclining in his favorite leather armchair and idly charming spiders to zoom out of their cobwebs and race each other across the ceiling.

After reluctantly confessing to the fact that he didn't think Granger an abomination, he and Blaise had discussed in very vague, general terms how one might go about having a… _conversation_ …with a woman.

Blaise had mentioned – very offhand, very casual – that it would likely be difficult to be taken seriously by a woman if she believed that you disliked her. Draco, frowning, had realized Blaise had a point. Their encounter in the hall had left him breathless for days, cursing his inability to _act_ when the moment demanded it. The truth of the matter was that he had been frozen but also undecided. However, the crisis of indecision passed, as they did, and he realized that perhaps the time was nigh for him to admit to himself that he was intrigued by Hermione Granger.

He said the words slowly to himself. "I am intrigued by Hermione Granger." It was difficult to think, difficult to admit – but harder still, to think of never trying to speak to her again.

Draco sat up slightly in his chair, returning the spiders to their webs, and focused on his desk, scattered with parchment.

For now, he decided, everything else could wait. He would let that thought settle, let it agree with his constitution, and later he could lie around and analyze his emotions until he was blue in the face.

So he was intrigued by Hermione Granger, so what? The real question was: what did she think of him? Judging by her cold indifference in the hallway the other day, not much.

His stomach cringed in shame at the memory, and also in – regret? No, not quite that. More – frustration, that he had added one more reason for her to dislike him to what he knew was an already significant pile.

Draco sighed. Blaise had been right; she wouldn't give him the time of day, much less a conversation. But there had to be a way to convince her – convince her what? That he was _different_? That he was _changed_ , whatever that meant?

He drew a quill, dawdling idly on a spare scrap of parchment, then immediately throwing it away when he realized he was drawing an eye – a very brown, muggleborn eye.

He thought back to all the sorts of speeches and gestures he'd witnessed between people over the course of his life, and found himself thinking of the story he'd heard, about how Harry and Ron had rescued Hermione from a mountain troll in the first year, and that was how the three had become friends.

He'd heard that some people apologized with lavish gifts or large gestures, and he supposed that saving someone from a mountain troll was a sort of 'gesture.' So, an act of virtue or kindness, then, he decided. Something…symbolic, to show Hermione that he meant what he said. But what?

0

He had seen her in this hall before, so he knew it was simply a matter of waiting. Dawdling around, really, until she walked by, and then just pulling her aside for a quick word. An hour dragged by slowly, the silken minutes sliding by, and then amidst the slow trickle of people, he saw her practical yet attractive black shoes on the marble. The gesture, the symbol, really, that he was holding in his hand seemed to burn up his arm. He had to talk to her.

He walked up to her, nodded at her, her name graced his lips – "Granger," he said, and, "may I?" His hand touched her arm, briefly, gently, he guided her along a side corridor, "if you don't mind, just a quick word," and they were in a small nook, a broom closet really, alone.

"I broke up with Astoria," he babbled, the words slipping out from behind his teeth, almost greased, out before he could clamp his teeth shut and keep them in. "We were never official, really, but I ended it with her, because I wanted to."

"Get your hand off my arm," she said in response. "I don't give a flying –"

He removed his hand and she stopped her train of thought to blink at him in surprise. Shaking herself a little, she recovered.

"How dare you?" she demanded. "How dare you, you _accost_ my like this in my workplace, when you could have—"

"I hardly accosted you," he said smoothly, coolly. "I asked you for a moment of your time."

Her anger was hot and brittle. "Save it for someone who cares. What's going on? Why am I here?"

"For the pleasure of my company of course," he said, trying out a smile on her. "You're free to leave at any time, you know. I don't see you walking away."

"Don't think for an _instant_ that I don't know what you're on about, Malfoy," she snapped at him, her tone sharp and vicious. "I'm not going to play your little game so you might as well leave me alone before I hex you."

"Listen Granger," he snapped back, his icy aristocrat upbringing in full force as he let his temper blaze only through his verbiage, "I won't be spoken to in that manner. I wanted to have a _civilized_ conversation with you – I need to speak to you, in fact –"

She barked a laugh. "Oh that's _rich,_ " she spat. "Please, Malfoy, tell me all the things that you've historically done to show me that you deserve to be treated in a _civilized_ manner."

His face lit up with a flush and he knew some of the archness was gone from his bearing. "I won't tolerate this sort of treatment," he began again, and she cut him off again.

"What do you want, Malfoy? You kiss me, you ignore me, you approach me at my _job_ of all places? I mean really, what is going on?"

"Our kiss was mutual," he corrected her, and her mouth twisted. "And I didn't ignore you, _you_ ignored _me_."

She stared at him, rage and incredulity melding in her face. "You ignored me, and I assumed it was because you've always been vocal about despising me, and therefore that the evening was to be stricken from memory. Which, by the by, I don't have any particular _fondness_ for you either!" Her voice started to rise slightly at the last bit, creeping into the octave reserved for fury.

And then they proceeded to have a truly bitter fight.

He had pulled her into a broom closet at the Ministry of all places, against his better judgement and all logic, but he simply hadn't been able to deny himself her presence any longer. And she had been ready to see him, if the vitriol she was harboring was any indication. It was true, what he had said when she asked what he was doing. She _was_ free to go at any time, but she didn't. So they let loose, they threw themselves at each other, and it was unsparingly brutal and excruciating.

Her harsh words seared at him like basilisk venom, crawling under his skin and settling against his soft undercoat of self-loathing. Hermione spared no detail of their time at Hogwarts, and her perfectly ordered textbook mind listed the litany of his sins in a whispered scream that left him under no illusions. He had bullied her – mercilessly, at times – and made huge mistakes. He had been rude, conceited, prejudiced, and disloyal, and Hermione Granger had been brave and true.

"Oh yes," he sneered, "so _brave_ and _true_. What a perfect loyal Gryffindor. Except for that time when you fled from me after I practically laid myself _bare_ in front of you with that kiss and then refused to so much as _look my way_ in public, like I was some sort of _filth_ , not even good enough for a nod, so how's that for all your touted Gryffindor heroism?"

"How does it feel, then?" she shouted, stabbing a finger at his chest, and her voice echoed against the walls because _this_ , _now_ , here, they were finally at the heart of the matter. "To be treated as if you were _less_ than someone else?"

"Are you really going to hold everything I did as a child against me?" he threw back at her, glaring at the finger that had poked his chest. "Granger, I _made mistakes_ and now I'm here, asking that you take me at face value."

"What are you saying?" she asked him warily, and things became clearer in his mind.

He sighed, some of the anger leaving him, and fought the defeat creeping in at the edges. This had been what he came to do, after all, though he had not imagined it in quite this way, and it was harder than he had expected, and more painful than he might have hoped.

"What I'm trying to say," he replied, "is that I'm sorry."

She stared at him for a moment, and then shook her head, crossing her arms. "It's not enough." When he didn't interrupt, she continued. "You can't just waltz in with an apology – which I'm not even sure I believe, first off – and then expect that everything is just going to be peachy and we'll suddenly be best chums. Not only were we enemies in school Malfoy, but you seem to be forgetting that we fought on opposite sides of the war."

He stood in front of her, eyes blazing with newfound frustration, his perfectly blond hair disheveled around his face, cheeks and neck flushed pink from their row.

"What do you want from me?" Something beyond irritation laced his voice, something closer on the spectrum of emotions to desperation than anything else.

Hermione saw he was clenching his fists, hands at his sides, like he'd been doing for the duration of this argument, but suddenly the gesture seemed different. Not in anger, but as if he were holding something. Fury clouded her memories but she tried to think back and recall if he had been holding something when they had begun talking. Yes, she thought so.

He brought his hands up in front of him, knuckles closed so tightly that they were white, and she surprised herself by _not_ flinching. No, she supposed, she no longer had any real fear that Draco Malfoy would be slapping her in revenge for what she had done in third year.

Involuntarily her gaze flickered down to his hands, then back up to his face, still stony in anger.

"I don't know," she said, in response to his question.

His left hand opened from its fist to cup the right hand and he held it in front of him like a supplicant, one protecting the fist. She bent her head forward to look again at the strange sight. His shoulders bowed around him, and their postures were suddenly intimate, both inclined inward, focusing around the central piece. Hermione's curiosity rose in her like a wave, sweeping out anger as she wondered what he could possibly be doing.

Draco's hair fell forward around his forehead, softening the harsh lines of his aristocrat's face, making him seem younger and more vulnerable.

"I brought you this," he told her, and slowly opened his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/E: Been working on this story and gave the first few chapters a bit of a makeover! I think this is going to be really fun. Oh yessss… get ready for some angst._

 _ **Bound**_

 **Chapter 5**

000

 _Draco's hair fell forward around his forehead, softening the harsh lines of his aristocrat's face, making him seem younger and more vulnerable._

" _I brought you this," he told her, and slowly opened his hand._

0

She stared down at the coiled lock of white blond hair in his palm. He had calluses on his fingers, she noted absently.

His hand had opened and her anger had left her with her breath. It was so shocking, so flattering, so beyond anything that she would have imagined him capable of. Hermione knew only a tenth of the history involved, but even that was enough.

"What is the meaning of this?" she tried to make her voice harsh, to keep her anger, but it was like trying to hold water in cupped hands.

He flushed, if possible, even more deeply. "I assume you're familiar with the history of the tradition," he said tightly.

She nodded.

He began to close his fingers, curling them inward once more. "I misjudged," he started, but her fingers reached out and touched his. The softest of brushes, a butterfly wing kiss, her fingertips grazing his, and he was as motionless as if she had cursed him.

"Wait," she said. He felt hope curl in his stomach, unexpected and unwanted, mixing with the guilt and shame, but unrelenting. He held his breath.

Her hand had paused above his, hovering, and he slowly opened his fingers once more. Fingers trembling, she picked up the small lock of hair with her thumb and forefinger, and then brought it into her own palm.

"As I understand it," she remarked, closing her hand around the hair – _his_ hair, "I am obligated to, ah, _inform_ you if I decide to," she hesitated again, looking down at her hand, and didn't finish the sentence.

He nodded. The small, almost nonexistent part of him noted with joy and triumph and hope that her fingers had closed around the lock of his hair, holding it within her fist.

She took a breath and tried again. "As I understand it, there are certain formalities to be observed, should I decide to return it, or," she paused, shuddered, swallowed, and his heart pounded in his chest, every beat seeming to churn ice into his arteries, "and should I decide, to do in fact the opposite of returning it?"

It wasn't a question but he nodded again and cleared his throat. "Yes, there are."

She gave him a long, considering look. "Why?"

It wasn't a question regarding the long-forgotten history of wizard courting, and he knew it. "I don't know," he told her honestly. "I just… couldn't stop myself."

He was not a talker; not much for words or giving speeches, but suddenly the agony of the past few days poured out of him and he found himself helpless against the flood.

"The way you looked at me when you handed me that glass. Like you thought I despised you, like you already _knew_ what I would do, like you thought I would rather eat mud than drink from your same glass. I wanted – I want – to show you, to be able to, well, to _speak_ to you without you constantly wondering if I'm making up insults in my mind for our entire conversation."

"And you thought that _this_ would be the exact, perfect way to achieve that goal?" she asked dryly.

"It came to mind," he said stiffly.

Suddenly, she smiled very slightly, the first genuine smile he'd ever seen from her, to him. It was a treasure to be hoarded. It went a long way to melting something within his stomach that he hadn't realized was there. It was like sunshine peeking out from behind the clouds after a week of wind and rain.

"Well, I suppose it did at that," she said.

0000

She lay in her bed later that night and stared at the ceiling. She, Hermione. She lay there, fingers twining idly in her hair; those long curls that had been the target of so many hateful childhood bullies. That bushy mass she had despised for so long, that had been a part of her she had wished was _smaller_ or somehow _less_. But just like her intellect, it continued to burst through whatever pitiful barriers she erected.

Hermione had spent so long trying to be small. As a muggle she had tried to be small and quiet, as if by going unnoticed she could somehow conceal the fact that she was fundamentally different from the other children. It hadn't worked, and so by the time she arrived at Hogwarts she had begun the long and challenging process of being herself, consequences be damned. Imagine her shock, then, when she eventually made friends after all. Despite being herself. In spite of being herself. A smile touched her lips. _Because_ , she whispered, mouth forming the words as she stared at the white, white paint on her ceiling. _Because_ she was being herself.

 _Because_ she was Hermione Granger, she thought, a warmth in her stomach that was still unfamiliar, even after all those years. She had friends, she had found friends, she had a place in the world, and she had a position of importance and relevance to her community. She was making a difference. She was _Hermione God-Damned Granger_ , and Merlin could go to hell.

She basked in the lightness that memories of Hogwarts always brought, allowing her brain another moment of rambling recollections, before returning to the present cause of her reverie.

Granger, he'd called her, a droll Draco Malfoy indeed, stopping her in hallways with his vampiric outfits, drawling her name like he'd just drank a cup of tea and found the milk sour (but still finished it, because a true Englishman never wasted tea). He'd never really grown out of that pinched look he'd had in his youth, but his appearance was no longer shocking in its assertiveness. His paleness and pointedness did not accost the viewer; he merely was, just like everyone else. Oh, perhaps it did lend him some vague ethereal aristocracy from days past, but who really had time to notice such things. Hermione wondered if part of the reason she was no longer so affronted by his appearance was if he, too, had discovered that long-held secret: that if you owned yourself, even liked yourself, that others would too. She had come to believe, after a fashion, that the people who were the biggest blights upon this earth were those that despised themselves most of all. Could it be possible that Malfoy had left their ranks?

Had he known, she wondered, when he had given her that lock of hair – had he known what it would do to her? Because now, of course, she had to lie here, twined around her bedsheets, hair splayed out like spilt molasses, and _agonize_ over what had just occurred.

He – Draco Malfoy, that is – he fancied her. There was no other way around it. Well, perhaps it was all part of some dire plot to utterly humiliate her, that was certainly possible, she supposed, but unlikely. Hermione knew somehow in the depths of her bones that even to humiliate her deeply and thoroughly, Malfoy would never sacrifice his own pride. He would cling to it like the last iceberg and would die of thirst rather than open himself to her. And he had opened himself to her, practically flayed himself bare. Frankly Hermione couldn't imagine him being more candid if he had charmed himself translucent, his chest clearing to reveal a heart beating beneath his ribs.

He must, she assumed, have a heart, despite what the data suggested.

"Oh Merlin," Hermione groaned, running a hand through her curls that got stuck about halfway down. She carefully extracted it, leaving the knot alone. "Merlin save me, but what am I supposed to do?"

 _Did_ he like her? How could she even question it, after what had just occurred? But these things always felt so tenuous, so uncertain. He hadn't truly said he fancied her, just that he'd wanted her to know that he was changing. He could have, _could have_ , presumably, possibly, meant it as an overture of – what? Friendship? She nearly snorted aloud. But… could he?

But – he had kissed her. She reminded herself of that. He had kissed her – or, they had kissed. She wasn't sure. She hadn't been drunk but the night was a blur, even so. Surely, if he kissed her and then given her his token, surely the implications in that gesture were clear.

And, if he had intended them to be opaque? What _could_ the man possibly want from her? Infuriating man! He had to know, of course, that after his big display she would be left to pick up the pieces of her shattered world view and put them back together. He had to know that now, the emotional labor of their heretofore _connection_ would fall to her, Hermione. How very like a man, to perpetually place the onus of emotional labor on the woman.

So, maybe he fancied her, maybe he didn't. She closed her eyes, blocking out all the noise for a moment, all the questions and concerns, the bright white of the ceiling, the dim sullen glow of her bedside lamp. No, she supposed, she wasn't truly asking the right questions. After all, she could hardly control his emotions. It wasn't really about him, not anymore.

Did _she_ fancy him? Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. The words filled her with an instinctive curdle of fear or revulsion, she wasn't sure which, and she let it roll through her, tightening her stomach into a hard, cold knot, before pushing the thought forward.

Not the boy, Draco Malfoy – no, certainly not him. But this new thing, this Draco Malfoy, this tight-lipped cabalistic enigma who claimed to be a man. What about him?

What indeed, she thought, did she think about him.

0

It was Luna she decided to speak to. Luna who frequently irritated her, but probably had some secret depth of wisdom regarding these things. They met for ice cream at Florean Fortescues shop and sat in the sunlight beneath the multicolored umbrellas while Luna steadily ate her bowl of maraschino cherries.

"Luna," Hermione said hesitantly, once her friend had finished describing the anti-Leprechaun properties of cherries, "I think Draco Malfoy tried to ask me out."

Luna showed no sign of interest, picking up another cherry by the stem and placing it delicately on her tongue.

Hermione tried again. "You know, well, not on a date specifically, but I think that was his intent."

"What makes you think that?" Luna wanted to know, and Hermione blinked.

"Well, he kissed me a while ago," she said. "And then, he, uh, he sort of hounded me down at the Ministry and he seemed rather out of sorts."

"I suppose," Luna spoke slowly, almost drawling, as she separated a cherry and its stem with a _pop_ , "that there is more to the story."

It wasn't a question, and Hermione sighed. "He, well, he was cross with me for not properly saying hello to him in the hall after we, uh, kissed. And we had a bit of a row about it, and then he did something surprising."

Luna raised her eyebrows, beginning to look intrigued. She reached for another cherry, and Hermione continued, suppressing the primal horror that rose in her gut as she considered what the sugar on the cherries was doing to Luna's enamel.

"He gave me a lock of his hair," Hermione she said rather lamely. "I've been researching it, and it's an old wizarding gesture, quite ancient, really."

The blonde witch nodded calmly. "That does sound a bit like asking you out," she agreed. Her tone was airy and simultaneously a bit gravelly, but the words weren't her usual teasing.

"Do you think?"

"Everyone always calls you clever, you know," Luna replied in a seeming non-sequitur, her dreamy eyes only half open. Hermione was used to her conversational patterns by now, though, so she merely waited. "Sometimes, Hermione, you don't act very clever at all."

Hermione flushed in a mixture of embarrassment and anger. "I'm not stupid Luna, but I didn't want to _presume_ that someone fancied me is all. I think that seems a bit rude, maybe even arrogant. I'm not Lavender Brown, strutting around with my head the size of a hot air balloon, assuming every bloke I pass fancies me."

"I think you can't decide whether or not you're pleased that he fancies you," Luna shot back, and Hermione's mouth slammed shut.

Luna's large blue eyes opened to their normal penetrating gaze, and a slight smile tugged at one corner of her mouth.

"Aye, there's the rub," she commented, the idle Shakespearean speech sliding fluently off her wizard's tongue. "It's not about whether Malfoy fancies you, Hermione, that's quite clear even to me. It's about whether or not you fancy him too."

"And I do _not_ ," Hermione interjected hotly, but Luna just smiled, and took another cherry. She started to hum something to herself under her breath that sounded like _So long, my dentist, wherever you are_ set to the tune of an old Weird Sister's song.

"Luna," Hermione snapped. "I do _not_ fancy Draco Malfoy. All I was saying, really, is that, well – Merlin, it sounds so idiotic," Luna still wasn't looking at her, so Hermione choked out the words, "well, it's sort of, erm, nice, to think that he might fancy, well – you know, _me_."

At that, Luna did smile, very widely, a smile that showed all her glossy, perfectly white teeth. "It is nice," she agreed. "Quite nice indeed. You should intend to let it go to your head."

000

What was he doing? What was she doing? The very angst of it all roiled in Draco's stomach and he found himself filled with a single world: _intolerable_. It was intolerable, is what is was. How did anyone ever survive this? This emotional upheaval, this up and down broom ride of emotion. It was utterly intolerable, and he would go mad if he had to bear it for another second.

He snarled at the placid expression of his companion, nearly kicking the small tea table out from beneath his feet. Limpid dark eyes flickered up to him from beneath absurdly long black lashes, and their owner did nothing to suppress the amusement that suffused the crinkles at the sides.

"Zabini," Draco growled, I'm about to strangle you on the spot. _Get out of my flat_ ," he barked, and the last words came out as more of a strangled scream.

Blaise Zabini, owner of those magnificent eyes and enviable lashes, recipient of many a sigh and even a few swoons in his day, stood up with considerable swagger and walked over to the couch Draco was lying on.

"My, my, my," he drawled laconically, perching on the Italian leather arm. "What's gotten your knickers all in a twist?"

Draco threw an arm over his face so that the elbow joint fitted over his nose, his forearm covering one eye, the bicep covering the other. He knew the pose was terribly melodramatic, but he simply couldn't help himself.

Blaise snickered. "Must be a witch, I suppose, if you're assuming a damsel in distress posture."

Draco peeked one eye out from under his forearm to shoot the darker man a glare. Blaise's eyes were pitiless with mirth, his high cheekbones quivering with the effort to keep his mouth in a straight line. Draco picked up a book and flung it directly at that heartbreakingly straight nose. Blaise hit it dead on with a banishing spell and it clocked Draco directly on the elbow.

"Damn you man, that's my funny bone," he cried, bolting upright, and Blaise dissolved into throes of giggles.

"Your _what?_ " he choked out between chuckles.

Draco cleared his throat self-consciously. "It's a muggle phrase, you illiterate Philistine. It's where your ulnar nerve wraps around your lateral epicondyle but I wouldn't expect a troll like you to know that."

"You know, I do suspect my mother married a troll at some point," Blaise replied musingly, and bright teeth flashed against dark skin, briefly predatory.

"It would explain a lot," Draco snapped.

"Look man, if you're just going to growl all day, then why don't you try and see her, or do something, or go – well, anywhere really, I suppose."

Draco sighed, still sitting up. So he owled her, a quick note, and asked her for coffee, and she responded, accepting, for coffee after work the following week. He realized that seemed more like a drink, or a date, or something along those lines, than he would have expected.

Blaise remained at his flat for a while longer, and they traded insults and discussed the hopeless chances for England's Quidditch team to ever make a world cup. The sun was setting by the time Draco convinced himself to broach the subject, and even then he did it delicately.

"Do you ever wonder," he asked Blaise slowly, _oh_ , so slowly, so cautiously, like a wounded, limping animal, "do you ever wonder if people can change?"

Blaise looked up from his firewhisky and tonic and blinked at him for one long, slow, fluttering moment. "No," he said, "I don't wonder."

Draco's heart stopped, filling his abdomen with a cold, dead dread, but then Blaise continued.

"I know that they can," he said. His lips twitched. "And I know why you're asking, Draco."

Draco felt his eyebrows flit toward one another in a hint of a frown, and he reached a finger up to stroke them back to smoothness. "Oh really?"

"Anyways," Blaise yawned, "it's hardly my opinion that really matters now, is it? Obviously, what you really want to know is _hers."_

"I don't think she's made up her mind yet," Draco replied – and there it was.

"Well," the other man shrugged, "perhaps she hasn't ever witnessed anyone change. It's not like that many people really do. I just don't think it's impossible."

"I think the fact that we're even having this conversation is evidence enough," Draco growled, suddenly disgusted with himself, with Blaise, with all of it.

Blaise tipped back his head and laughed, heartfelt and throaty. "Draco, Draco, Draco," he purred, "I forget what a joy you are."

"And you?" Draco arched a pale eyebrow at him. "Can you change?"

Blaise placed a hand over his heart. "I've always been the same, for those who cared to look."

"Zabini," Draco snorted, "you were mean as an adder in school."

"Exactly," Blaise rejoined. "My black little heart has always known itself."

"You were so mean that you and I weren't even friends."

Blaise smiled. "We weren't friends because _you_ were so stupid, you couldn't even see who was worth spending time with."

Draco nodded his head, conceding the point on that one. They were silent for a few moments, and Draco realized again how little he knew about the years Blaise had spent at Hogwarts, and how separate their lives there had been. How had they grown so close since graduation? In more ways than one, their conversations were evidence of his own changing perspectives, of his own personal growth.

"So change is possible, if not probable, or even believable," Draco said finally, breaking the silence. There was another word that hovered on the tip of his tongue, a word that was dangerous, a word that burned with a strangely deep, agonizing flame.

"What about _redemption_ ," he asked hoarsely. "What do you think about that?"

And Blaise turned those large dark eyes on him, so huge they seemed to take up half his face, and Draco saw that they were full of pity.

0

The day of the coffee experiment hadn't yet arrived when he walked past her at the Ministry and summoned the majority of his courage to nod to her and whisper "Granger," as though he'd just recovered from a terrible head cold.

She ignored him. Completely.

As completely, a small voice whispered in the back of his head—that sibilant, cunning voice, the voice that had probably been left there by _You-Know-Who_ , she ignored him as completely as he had ignored her, the last time.

He shrugged it off. That had been a mistake; they had resolved it. He had apologized for it, that damn apology, for all it was worth, he had apologized and damned his eternal soul in the face of everything that had once mattered to him (blood purity, ancient Wizarding castes, and the like), but it had been an _apology_ and it had been _real_ and then she had the gall to stick up her nose at him as if they'd never met before.

Had this been what she had felt, then, when he had passed her that other day? Was this some sort of sick – retribution? After all, what had he been hoping for, with all his utter foolishness?

 _Redemption?_ He almost laughed aloud in the Ministry, almost choked on his own saliva, almost vomited on the marble tiles. _Redemption_. As if that sort of thing were possible for a —for a — _for a_ — his mind couldn't finish the sentence. It stuttered and sputtered and went out.

 _For someone like you_.

As if redemption could even be possible, for someone like you.

0

The words were rolling off his tongue before he could clench his jaws shut to keep them inside.

"I'm so _angry_ at you," he said, and they burned a track of hard, cold fire as they left his lips.

Hermione eyed him coolly, ever in control, seemingly never distressed or disturbed, her features smooth and at ease. Only her eyes gave her away, hard as agates, unflinching. He looked into those eyes and found that he was wanting.

"Are you really?" she replied, calm in contrast to his frustration.

"I'm unaccustomed to being so forthright," he snarled, "but yes, I am. I'm _angry_ at you, Granger, for behaving like a child."

"And how, exactly, am I behaving like a child?" she asked him.

They were outside the coffee stand at the Ministry of Magic, after work on a Wednesday. He had no idea why she'd suggested the Ministry, why he'd agreed. They could have gone anywhere else and it would have been different but instead they were waiting in line at the same place where she likely got her coffee every morning, and then – Merlin knew where they would go after that.

"Fine," he snapped, watching the wizard in front of them in line and careful to keep his voice low even as it crackled with emotion, "if you want me to spell it out for you, I will. Why did you reply to my owl and then ignore me in the hallway?"

She raised her eyebrows and practically snorted at him. "Honestly," she said, derision in every syllable, "what did you expect? We're not exactly _friends,_ Malfoy."

"Yet you'll meet me here, where anyone could see us."

Hermione shrugged. "It could be a business meeting."

"It's not."

She shrugged again, still unflustered. "It could be."

"It's a date," he told her, and at that she looked up.

"No," she replied quietly. "It's definitely not that."

"So what," he growled, at a loss. "So you'll speak to me in secret, but not openly? What's the point of all this subterfuge, Granger?"

"Malfoy," she said, and for just a moment, one heartrending flicker of time, her mouth dragged out the sound of his name, and something curled deep within his abdomen. "I don't know. I – your owl – well, I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have responded at all, but I just, I just _did_ ," she said. "I just wanted to. But I am not your friend, and while you suddenly claim to have spent the last few years quietly reversing all your opinions and views, I haven't been privy to that little jubilee."

"So, what," he drawled, "you're saying I have to earn your respect?"

She quirked a corner of her mouth. "Yes, I think I may be saying just that."

"Sounds difficult," he said, borrowing from Zabini's laconic turn of a phrase.

"I'm sure you'll manage," she said dryly, as they stepped forward in the line. "But no more of these hissy fits and murderous glares in the meantime, are we clear?"

Draco sucked in a breath of outrage. "Hissy fits?" he squeaked out. " _Hissy fits?_ "

Hermione regarded him with a very interesting expression and stepped forward to order and pay for her own coffee before he could recover and butt in.

After they had collected their drinks they moved slightly away from the coffee stand and he decided that there was nothing for it. With deliberate casualness, he knocked a shoulder lightly against hers and prayed to every wizarding deity for one pure second of easy charm.

"Since you can't be seen with me, where would you like to go drink these?" he asked, trying to pour every dripping, swaggering ounce of Blaise Zabini into the movement and subsequent question.

Hermione turned huge, rather startled eyes on him, and froze. "Um, let's, um, let's walk around the fountain," she stammered, and he felt something rather like satisfaction at finally succeeding in flustering her.

"So you say we're not friends," he mused, as they began to stroll, his long legs lazily eating up the ground. Her shoes clicked on the marble beside him.

"We're not friends," she confirmed.

"And yet, here we are. We've corresponded, you reply to my owls, we've… well, I hardly need to detail it _all_."

Was that a blush creeping up from beneath the hem of her blouse? He couldn't be certain. "I don't know how many friends you've had, Malfoy," she retorted, "but there's significantly more to the enterprise than those few things you've just listed."

"So, illuminate me, then."

She shook her head. "I imagine it would take rather more time and patience than I have at my disposal."

"Ah, I see," he said around a sip. "Let's put something on the books then, shall we? Another arrangement between – well, I've been told we're not friends, so – between," he raised a wicked eyebrow at her, his smirk climbing toward a smile, "between…?"

Hermione was staring at him in shock. "What's gotten into you lately, Malfoy?"

"Back to this, then," he sighed, and faced her. "All this philosophical musing gets rather tiresome, wouldn't you agree?" When she didn't respond, he continued snappishly, "I've told you Granger, I haven't got a bloody clue. What's your excuse?"

"But I—" she seemed taken aback, "but you — then we — and I, and this is _not_ my problem Malfoy, and don't try and turn it on my like that."

He shrugged. "Worth a try, anyways. Like I said Granger, haven't a clue. Wish I could explain it in some grand speech, but," his lashes flickered briefly, "I think I've already made any and all of the grand gestures I possess."

She was silent for a moment, watching him. His steps faltered, and he shot her a gaze from the corner of his eye, finding her looking at him with intent curiosity.

"Seriously," she repeated. "What do you want from me?"

"What do you want from me?" he countered.

" _You_ contacted _me_ ," she reminded him.

"So," he shot back, "what made you reply? No one forced your hand, Granger. You weren't locked in a tower with no one for company but evil old me. You replied to my invite. Why?"

"I told you already, I don't know."

They had stopped walking, in the middle of the vast chamber containing the fountain, and were standing a little apart from each other, staring at one another. She was so much more petite than him, and her dark hair was an inky blot against her face.

"You don't know why," he said, a little hoarsely. "Come on Granger, I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave."

Her eyes glittered, but she did take a breath in. "I _replied_ to you," she said tightly, "because I want to know what exactly is going on here."

"That's all?" he asked.

"That's all."

He could see her pulse bobbing in her throat, and watched how her chest rose with every inspiration. Good, he thought, at least she was fucking _losing her mind_ too, at least he wasn't the only one here feeling like his stomach was about to rip him to shreds from the inside. _Good,_ he thought again, _she's nervous, too_.

What he said was, "wrong answer, Granger," and it was everything he could have asked for, all sultry tones and silken shades of smooth.

"You dare," she said, her voice quavering with what he guessed was anger, "you dare to accuse me of cowardice and then dishonesty? _You, Draco Malfoy? Isn't that a bit rich, even for a Slytherin? Oh yes, Malfoy, I know about all your crimes against humanity, and don't you think for one instance that you have been forgiven."_

The words echoed in the silence of his skull for a moment before he could process them. _Forgiveness._ What would it even mean, to be forgiven? He wasn't sure he knew. _Redemption_. That word that filled him with an unbearable longing, that word he ached for with a hollowness that ran so deep it was almost like anger.

He found that his face was heating, that her words had struck something inside him, something near that deep, hollow space, something that he _hated_ and despised, something unexpected.

She was breathing heavily, hair in her face, cheeks flushed with anger, and he took a step forward and grabbed her hands in his and glared back down at her, as furious as she.

"I will dare to say as I please. You came here tonight because, though you'll never admit it, _that kiss was mutual_ , and if you gainsay me I'll know you forever to be a liar and a coward on par with myself."

He flung the words at her, brutal, angry, bare, and found his own confusion reflected in her eyes.


End file.
